


Three Bullets

by jadztone



Series: Sherlock Nanowrimo [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Reichenbach, its only teen because Greg gets a bit sweary, papa lestrade, set during events of TEH
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-23 03:39:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11394603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadztone/pseuds/jadztone
Summary: Now that Sherlock is back from the dead, Greg comes to visit him and say what's on his mind.





	Three Bullets

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a series of stories I wrote for Nanowrimo and posted on my tumbler page, sherlock-nanowrimo.tumblr.com. I was doing a story a day, generally leaving them open-ended if I wanted to add on to the story later in the month. The ones that I did add on to will be posted on AO3 as multiple chapters. They will all be posted as complete, with no expectation that I will ever revisit them. I haven't changed them from the way they were posted on tumblr, they have their issues, but I like to think of them as diamonds in the rough. The stories contain multiple crossovers with other fandoms, and multiple ships.

Greg was just about to knock on the door to 221B, when it flew open.  Sherlock had opened it, but didn’t look at him.  He was focused on a book in his hand and was already walking towards the kitchen.  “Have a seat, Greg.  Would you like tea or something harder?”  He glanced up briefly from the book and gave Greg the onceover.  “Scotch, it is. I’ll get a couple of glasses.”

Greg went and sat down in one of the chairs, watching as Sherlock, without once looking up from the book he was reading, walked to the kitchen, opened a cabinet, removed two tumblers with one hand, closed the cabinet, and walked over to where Greg was sitting.  He placed the two tumblers on the small table and then went over to where he kept a decanter of scotch and brought it over to the table.  He pulled out the stopper and started to pour.  Except that he was about to miss the glass by an inch.  Greg shouted, “Wait!  Why don’t you let me do that, mate.”  

Sherlock looked up, confused, then saw the error he was about to make.  He finally put the book down, and proceeded to pour the scotch into the two glasses.  Then he sat down.   They both started to take sips of their drinks, when Greg saw Sherlock’s eyes widen. He was staring at Greg.  “Is something wrong, Sherlock?”

“I just…you’re sitting in…nothing.  Simply wondering what brings you here this evening.”

Greg smiled slightly. “You haven’t deduced it, yet?”

“I know it’s not a case. You’re dressed more informally and you don’t have that usual edge to you that you get when you’re working.  You’re not completely relaxed, your shoulders are very tense, so that tells me that there’s something you want to discuss that you’re not completely comfortable with.  I suspect that it is something emotional or very personal.  It’s unlikely that you would turn up here with the purpose of sharing something from your personal life, so I suspect it has to do with our relationship.  Not working relationship, personal relationship.  If it was work, as I said, you would have that edge to you. So.  What is there between us that you’d want to talk about?  Something to do with my death?  Questions you have about how I did it?  How it made you feel?”

Greg took a sip of scotch. “I already know the logistics of how it was done.  I talked about it with Molly.  She and I sometimes have lunch together when I’m at St. Bart’s on a case.”

“Are you angry with me for not telling you that I wasn’t really dead?”

Greg shook his head.  “No, I can see why you’d want to keep it need-to-know.  You didn’t even tell John.  Not inviting me into your confidence is the one thing I don’t have hard feelings about.”

“And you came here to confront me with how much I’d wronged you.”  Sherlock’s expression was a mixture of chagrin and defiance.  

Greg sighed.  “No, I don’t want to confront you.  I just want to talk.  Look, the past two years have been…  Well, first there were my colleagues and my boss insisting you were a fraud.  I didn’t know how to deal with that professionally or personally.  I couldn’t believe it, but I didn’t know if my judgment was clouded.  Then there was the merry chase you led us on after you escaped custody, followed by you plunging to your death at St. Bart’s.  Then the article that came out, supposedly Moriarty being a figment of your imagination portrayed by an actor.  The whole thing was a complete mind fuck.  I spent half the time grieving for you, half the time cursing you.  I felt like I should be ashamed that I had been taken in by you, while at the same time not quite believing that I had been.  How was it possible that every single case we worked on together, you somehow knew inside information or somehow had perpetrated the crime or whatever else explanation people came up with because they couldn’t accept how brilliant you are.  That’s what kept nagging at the back of my mind.  All those years of us working together, never a doubt that you were anything but what you said you were, and then suddenly the threads of your deception unraveled just that quickly.  First my friends at the police department coming for your head, then conveniently Richard Brook spills his guts to a journalist.  Then your suicide.  I was convinced that the suicide wasn’t shame over being a fraud.  You could deal with the world hating your genius, but couldn’t deal with them hating you because they thought you weren’t one.”

Greg paused and took a swallow of scotch.  He expected Sherlock to be annoyed that he was going on and on, but Sherlock seemed fascinated.  He took a deep breath and continued.  “And then of course it all came out.  Brook was really Moriarty.  You were vindicated.  I felt vindicated, but also guilt for the part I had played.  I kept thinking if I had told Donovan and Anderson to piss off, that if it had never gotten to the Chief, you wouldn’t have had to run from the police, wouldn’t have made the decision to end it before you were thoroughly dragged through the mud.  Anderson didn’t help.  He felt even worse than I did and kept telling me all his ridiculous theories about you faking your death.  Not that I wouldn’t have loved for that to be true, but jesus, it seemed so far-fetched. And then…and then you proved bloody Anderson right.  I was happy you were back, but I avoided that asshole for a straight week so I wouldn’t have to deal with him.”

Greg took another sip.  “And then today I met with Molly.  She told me how you came to her for help.  How you and your brother suspected that Moriarty was going to destroy your reputation, turn everyone against you, and that you might have to fake your death.  It felt like a punch in the gut, you know.  You predicted that Moriarty would use the people who knew you, use me,” Greg pointed to himself, “in his scheme to ruin you, and that he would be successful. You knew he would successfully manipulate me into turning on you.  You knew it would work.”  Greg’s voice cracked.  He strove for control.

Sherlock said quietly, “Greg…”  

Greg shook his head and held up his hand.  “No, let me finish.  I’m not upset because I could be so easily manipulated.  I’m upset because of how you must have felt about it.  I know you felt something, because you’re not an unfeeling bastard like you pretend.  And you went ahead anyways with your plan.  With Molly’s help.”  Greg chuckled slightly.  “Okay, I guess I am a little hurt that I wasn’t taken into your confidence.  It means either you didn’t need me or I couldn’t be trusted with so big a secret.”

“Greg…”

“No!  I’m not finished!”  Greg took a deep breath.  “It was definitely a blow to realize in the end that I was part of Moriarty’s plan to burn you, but not part of the plan to save you from him.  Having said that, Molly said something else that really struck me.”  He gripped his glass and took another sip.  “She said that you had 13 scenarios for how you thought the meeting on the roof would go, and a plan for each of them.  Faking your death was a last resort in only the most severe of circumstances.  She told me that the reason you went with the most drastic plan was because Moriarty had threatened the lives of three people.  Moriarty believed that only these three people were your friends.  The only ones you cared about.  John, Mrs. Hudson, and me.  Molly didn’t make the cut.  Not even your brother made the cut.  But I did. A maniac was ready to kill me because he believed it would incentivize you to do what he wanted.  And it worked.  You did do what he wanted, or at least pretended.  That, to me, was the biggest take away.”  He held up his glass to indicate he was finally finished, and took another sip.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.  “Your biggest take away is that you found out you’d almost died because of me?”

“No, you idiot.  Look, Moriarty believed I could be duped, and he was right.  He also believed that we were friends, and he was right.  I feel like I can live with having been a patsy if it also means that I’m important to you.  Because that means a lot to me.  I hope that I don’t let you down again.  And I hope that you will feel that you can trust me in the future to have your back if you need it.  You can call on me for anything, any time, I will come.  I promise.”

Sherlock smiled, then pressed his palms together and tapped them against his lips.  “I really appreciate that you told me all this, Greg.  I feel honored that despite all the hell I’ve put you through, the only thing you care about is that we are friends.  Most people would have written me off for good.  I’m slightly worried that John has.  Thank you for your generous offer to be there for me.  I’m sure that I will be calling on you at some point.”

Greg held up his glass again.  “Cheers!” Sherlock did the same, and they clinked glasses together before downing the rest of their scotch in one go.

**Author's Note:**

> Realizing now that Sherlock calls him Greg the whole time. Oh well, maybe he was feeling generous that day.


End file.
